Let It Roll Right of Your Shoulders
by Hinn-Raven
Summary: Companions pieces, missing moments, and deleted scenes from These Twists and Turns of Fate.
1. Shake it Off

**A/N: Even after I finished _These Twists and Turns of Fate_, I kept thinking about the story. Where would it go? What happens next? And so this was born. I hope you guys enjoy it!**

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><p>Stephanie Brown slips out of bed, leaving Cass curled up in the tangled sheets, curled in a ball. Her hair is adorably mussed, falling into her face, and she sleeps peacefully, undisturbed by dreams.<p>

Steph presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to get rid of the images burnt into them. There will be no more sleep tonight, she thinks, staring at the scars on her arms.

She fingers the fabric of her Spoiler costume, where she'd thrown it before collapsing into bed with Cass, both of them bruised, sweaty messes. Her first night as Spoiler since Blackest Night—her first real time as Spoiler since her "death". It shouldn't really be a surprise that the nightmares have come back, harsh and vivid and bloody.

She slips silently through the carpeted hallway of the Manor, feeling self-conscious in her shorts and tank top. The outfit shows off her scars, in a way her normal outfits hide. But patrol has been over for hours now, and the Manor is silent and still.

She pushes open the door to the kitchen, and frees, half guiltily, half fearfully, as she sees Bruce sitting at the table. He looks at her, and she sees a quick flash of something before his eyes shutter, locking away whatever reaction he'd had to seeing her.

Steph swallows, and moves into the kitchen, making sure to keep her breathing steady and to hide the fact that her hands are shaking like jelly. She shouldn't care what Bruce thinks of her, but his approval—or lack thereof—is still important to her.

It's been a week since Steph made up her mind not to run from Bruce any longer. But not running is not the same as approaching, and so this is the first time she's been alone with Bruce since… well, since she was Robin.

A familiar ache flickers in her stomach for those days, despite all the anguish that had made them so bitter at the time. Being Robin, even as Art, had meant the world. Gotham was for Bats and Birds, not for Spoilers. But Steph pushed down the feeling, and instead began to busy herself with the kettle.

"Alfred keeps the good tea behind the flour," Bruce's voice breaks through her reverie. Steph freezes, hand inches away from box of Earl Grey. "It's what he normally serves."

Steph closes her eyes. "Thanks," she says, heading over a few cupboards, to wear Alfred keeps the dry goods. Sure enough, Steph finds several boxes of expensive teas. She selects a simple green teabag, and then closes the doors.

She turns back to the kettle, and then she freezes again—her old mug is there, in Bruce's hands. The mug that Alfred had always served her tea in when she was Robin, when she was first Spoiler, even. It's a simple, harmless mug, a sturdy brown ceramic piece with a dribbled glaze of purple around the rim and the handle. But she hasn't seen it since the Black Mask—she'd assumed it was gone, if she's even thought about it, in the trash or something. But it's there, in Bruce's hands, and he's offering it to her, his face carefully blank.

"It's the same one," he says, when she doesn't make a move, too busy staring at him, clutching the tea bag tightly. "After… afterwards, I packed up your things. I put them with Jason's. I… I couldn't stand to see them. To be reminded."

Something curls in Steph's stomach, but she isn't sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing. "Thanks," she whispers, reaching out and taking it, after a long, painful moment. Bruce looks at her hands as she stretches out her hand, and she wonders if he sees the crooked angle of the fingers on her right hand, where the Black Mask smashed them with a brick, demanding to know the location of the Batcave. In the end, she'd given him one of the spares she'd known about, but she'd been loath to reveal even that, betraying the sliver of trust that Bruce had extended to her.

The mug passes into her hand, and she tries not to break down in tears. She hadn't realized it would be important—that Bruce hadn't thrown out everything she'd touched, that he'd kept it, that it had _meant_ something to him as well as her.

The kettle whistles softly, and Steph pours herself water.

Once the tea is seeped and the bag removed, she turns to face Bruce, feeling stronger with tea in her hands.

She recalls, suddenly, a dream, a snatch of a memory

_"I just wanted to help," she whispers, looking at him. "I didn't mean…"_

_"I know," he says, and he sits, taking her hand—why is she lying down? What a strange dream. She feels as if she is floating, and there is no sensation in the hand that Bruce holds. "I'm sorry, I should have… been more careful."_

_"Was it… was it just a joke?" She asks, her voice small. "Making me Robin?"_

_"__No__." Bruce says, ferociously, and Steph smiles in the dream. "You were my Robin. I failed you. I'm sorry."_

_"I __was__ Robin," Steph feels herself smiling, but the dream is fading already, darkness setting in around the edges. This was a good dream… "Good," she says, before slipping into the inky black._

She sits down across from Bruce, and studies her tea. "When… when I was in the hospital," she began, her voice slow and thoughtful. "I… I hallucinated a lot. Did Leslie tell you that? I saw… I saw _things_. Wish fulfillment mainly—I saw myself as a girl, and I felt safe, and happy." She bit her lip. "But… I remember… there was one part of the dream that was different. It had you in it."

Bruce looks tense. "What… what happened?"

"You said I wasn't a joke," she whispers, and, to her horror, a tear falls onto her hand, wrapped so tightly around her mug that she thinks it might shatter. "You said I was Robin. I thought it was just a dream…"

"No," Bruce says, and she looks up, gaze watery. "No… I… you were my Robin. I… I should have known better, Stephanie."

Steph feels her tears flow freely, and she bends her head again, ducking away from Bruce's stare. "It wasn't a dream," she says, disbelieving. Something warm fills her stomach, and it's not the tea.

"I failed you, Stephanie," Bruce says, and she _hears_ the guilt in his voice, the unsteadiness in his tone. "You deserved so much better. I… I can never make up for what happened; for what I did, and what I didn't do. But I _am_ sorry for how I treated you."

Steph can't speak, her throat is tight with tears. But she smiles thinly at Bruce, and nods, just once.

It's enough.


	2. I'm Not Your Hero

**A/N: Accidently posted this as the second chapter to _These Twists and Turns_, not this fic. Oops. Sorry for everyone who got the notification by mistake. Anyway, here's some Jim Gordon perspective! I love Jim, and I don't write him nearly enough. Also, Birds of Prey! And Gotham Central! **

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><p>Jim Gordon hears about the new Spoiler, and he pauses, his coffee cup halfway to his lips and a frown on his face. Across the room, he sees that Harvey is scowling as he listens to the report.<p>

"No respect for the damn dead," Harvey growls when Jim approaches him. "What right does that girl have to dress up like that? That kid got murdered trying to save the whole fucking city and some newbie just decides to flaunt the name around." Harvey slams his paperwork on top of his desk, scowling.

"Have you talked to Renee?" Jim asks, quietly. "Maybe she knows more about this."

"Like she'd tell us." Renee is sort of a sore point for Harvey—Renee left the force just before Harvey had returned, torn up with grief and guilt over Crispus Allen's death. Jim lost track of her after that—Hub City was a difficult place to keep track of someone in.

But then the Question had come to Gotham, and Jim and Harvey had heard her speak, and there had been no mistaking it. Renee had come home. But she still was distant from Harvey, her old partner, and Harvey was bitter about that—he missed his old friend, who had barely spoken to him since her return. Jim had a bit more luck—the Question _was_ a member of the Birds of Prey, and he'd gone to visit Barbara and stumbled on a meeting often enough.

"Try it," Jim says. "We owe the boy that much."

Jim goes into his office, nodding to Maggie Sawyer as he passes her. He closes the door and the blinds, and slumps in his chair.

From the depths of his desk, he retrieves the file for Arthur Brown Junior.

Three photographs grin up at him from the file—a school portrait, a candid of Spoiler, and a newspaper photographer's prize shot of Robin.

Jim had gone to the funeral. He had read the articles about child-endangerment, and how Batman had no right to send a child out into the streets of Gotham, he had seen the tears on Crystal Brown's face as she buried her son.

He had met Spoiler during No Man's Land—a time so long ago that people outside of Gotham had forgotten it, but it had marked all of the survivors, making sure that they would always remember. Batgirl had risen during that time—his daughter had created a legacy for herself, and had grown into the role of mentor as well as hero. Huntress had softened, switching from vengeance driven vigilantism to protection and heroism. Sarah had died, protecting the children of Gotham from the Joker.

Spoiler had been Batgirl's partner during No Man's Land, translating for her and joking, always eager to please and help. Arthur Brown had been one of Barbara's assistants, sleeping on her couch and guarding the door. The boy's eyes were always surrounded with dark circles, and when asked about his family, he claimed that getting his mother out of Gotham was all that had mattered.

Batman hadn't sent a child out onto the streets of Gotham—Gotham had swallowed this child up, body and soul, demanding everything of him before chewing him up and spitting him out, leaving him dead at the Black Masks's hand.

Jim sighs, and goes to go see his daughter.

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><p>The Clock Tower has a homey feel lately that it had lacked for years, and that brings a smile to Jim's face. His girl deserves that much, and now she has it, even if it isn't the family or the career that Jim had used to wish for her.<p>

A girlfriend who's the ex-wife of a superhero, who happens to be a superhero herself, is one thing. But his daughter's extended family also includes a former Mafia heiress, the world's best fighter, a former police woman, a time travelling pilot from the 1950s, and one of his subordinate's fiancés (not that, officially speaking, he knows about the last one.)

He is very good at ignoring the identities of superheroes. Giving Batman's propensity for dramatics, he has to be.

He knocks on the door, and waits.

The door is opened, and he pauses, surprised that he doesn't recognize the opener. The girl standing on the other side of the door has long blond hair, and is wearing a loosely knit navy sweater over a pair of black jeans. Her eyes are dark blue, and her skin is lightly tanned and peppered with freckles. Something about her is familiar to Jim, but he can't figure it out for the life of him.

"Is Babs in?" He asks the girl, who is openly staring at him. Clearly, she recognizes _him_, meaning she has one up on him.

Then he realizes that this is probably Spoiler—this is the girl he is here to discuss.

"Yeah," the girl's voice is fairly low, but sweet. She grins at him, clearly uncertain. "Uh, follow me?"

Jim follows her into the tower. Cassandra is sprawled on the couch, playing a video game with Helena, and they seem to find the whole thing hilarious, judging on their commentary about the bad assassination strategies and historical inaccuracies.

Renee is talking to Babs, and she smiles at him when she sees his approach.

"Commissioner," she says, and Jim misses seeing her around the office every day, even if he knew it was probably for the best.

"Renee, I've told you, unless you're taking your job back, it's Jim," he smiles and shakes her hand, clasping her firmly on the shoulder.

Renee laughs, and grabs the blond girl. "C'mon, Steph. Let's go make sure our girls don't kill each other." The girl—Steph—laughs, tossing her hair, and heads towards the couches, where she pecks Cassandra on the cheek before sitting next to her.

"Hi Dad," Babs says, "Want to talk in private, or we good out here?"

"Private's probably a good idea," Jim replies, his eyes lingering on Steph.

They go into Babs's console room—a maze of computers and hard drives, with a bulletin board with dozens of USB drives hanging from pins.

"Is this about Spoiler?" Babs asks, after Jim sits down in the swivel chair.

"Yes," Jim says. There is no point in beating around the bush, after all. They know each other too well.

"Don't worry about it," Babs says. "It's… it's not what you think."

"So it's not a girl who doesn't know what she's doing taking a costume from a boy who died trying to save the city?" Jim raises an eyebrow.

"No. It's not that at all. Stephanie Brown knows _exactly_ what she's doing, and she's not stealing anything from anyone, dead or alive."

"_Brown_?"

"Yes."

Jim massages his temples. "Is this another weird superhero thing?" He asks, plaintively. His life used to be _simple_.

"Sort of. It's a bit more complicated than that."

"Does Crystal know?"

"Yes."

Jim sighs, shoving aside his concerns. He doesn't understand, not really, but he trusts Babs—she might lie to him, lie to him frequently and well enough that it makes him go over everything she ever told him as a child, but not about this.

He leaves the console room, and he sees Steph again, throwing her arms in the air to cheer for the video game.

Jim freezes, seeing the familiar web of scars on her arms.

He had seen the pictures of Arthur Brown's autopsy—when the boy had been ousted as Robin postmortem, they had been leaked as well. Black Mask had done a number on the boy.

And the exact scar pattern was there, on the girl's arms.

Jim crosses the room, and touches Stephanie on the shoulder.

"Good luck out there, girl," he says to her, voice rough, and he smiles at her.

He goes back to the office, opens his private copy of the file again, and quietly crosses out all of the "hims" and "hes" as he drinks his coffee.


End file.
